


Dragonstone

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Balcony Scene, F/M, Prompt Fill, Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon gets his.</p><p>Prompt fic:</p><p>Ok can I request a one shot like that of Jon and Sansa on the balcony at Dragonstone like Jon thought of in Pyke? If Sansa's gona get hers it only fair that Jon gets his :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Blue for her Beta work!
> 
> Hey guys--- Trials and Tricks epilogue still isn't finished thanks to family stuff. BUT! Here is a one-shot I wrote!

The sunset before them could take your breath away. Sunsets at Dragonstone were always beautiful, but since summer had come, they’d gotten better. The castle could be dreary, but when the array of violet, fuchsia, orange, and gold burst across the sky as the day ended and the sun set over the glittering ocean and the continent of Westeros off in the distance…. Well, it was hard to remember the island was dirty, dark, damp, and volcanic or that the castle had a hundred gargoyles for each sparse cranberry bush in its small garden. 

But the loveliest thing Jon Targaryen saw as he stood on the balcony of his chambers wasn’t even the sunset at this point. No, it was the redhead who was all but whimpering as his hands ran up and down her torso.

“Jon, we mustn’t. The servants---“

“---Already know that we couple. We have two children. They don’t think we made Naerys and Brandon by holding hands,” he teased her, burying his nose in Sansa’s hair. The petal of the blue roses she wore in her hair tickled his brow. _She wore actual roses this time!_

Sansa liked the look of the winter rose garland, and the flower was a special little erotic symbol of their marriage and really in general. Pretty much every story involving them centered around a seduction. Usually of a daughter of House Stark, too. The first real big romantic gesture he’d ever shown her was filling her room with winter roses, giving her a crown of them, and declaring her his Queen of Love and Beauty. After that, he started writing his name on her cunny with his tongue, they’d fucked like mad, and the next morning he told her he wanted to make her his wife. All of this happened while surrounded by the blue blossoms.

Ever since, Sansa had fresh winter roses delivered to her every two weeks, with the exception of their months in Essos. She had now finally and successfully managed to grow some in the glass garden built for them in the Red Keep. But the fact was, getting those flowers bought and transported was pricey (especially in those early days, when winter still reigned). Sansa didn’t want to waste flowers and coin, so she’d had a garland of fake, silk blue roses fashioned to wear.

Jon didn’t mind the fake crown. It was a smart and sweet way to preserve flowers that took so much effort and time to cultivate and deliver. It was responsible and that she was so practical was one of the things he loved about her.

But it still wasn’t quite the same. Silk was nice, but it wasn’t anything to the real thing. There wasn’t the same smell or texture. None of the joy watching the petals fall into her hair and onto the bed. None of that scent. None of the rustle of leaves and stems. Jon liked things more natural.

Her wearing real roses quickened his pulse and heated his blood. The second he inhaled that scent, there was no question. He had to make love to her, right there, right then.

She continued to resist, though. She blushed and giggled. “Perhaps not, but I’d like to think that we’ve set a fine enough example that our attendants would believe we made them properly, in our marriage bed as is expected of a lord and lady.”

They may have. There was a greater chance of that with Naerys. Once they started trying, they fucked in bed, though there’d been more than a few instances of them doing the act on the floor, on tables, chairs, sofas, in the bathtub… And even when it was in bed, it wasn’t really their “marriage” bed yet as they were only betrothed when they chose to get a head start on creating the new heir to the Iron Throne. Of course, that was the bed they primarily slept in as a married couple now, so he supposed it could count. 

There was less of a chance of this with their son. Brandon was conceived during their tour of the Targaryen domains in Essos. A lot of that involved riding with the khalasaar and living in tents. Sometimes they had a proper bed. Mostly they had palettes because they didn’t feel comfortable sleeping on soft feather mattresses when most of the people surrounding them had to kip on the ground. It wasn’t right. There was a chance Brandon was made once they’d settled into Meereen and could fall into a real bed with a clear conscience, but the tent was a greater possibility.

The two of them had made love in a lot of places, on a lot of surfaces, under a lot of circumstances, very few of them “proper” by the narrow definitions of what they were taught about respectable marriage as children. And not all of those improper couplings were initiated by him, either.

“Well, what about the night of the tourney? Remember that?” He teased her, tickling her ear with his breath. She shivered. “You were quite obsessed with making that little scenario you dreamed up a reality, Your Grace. And we can’t be sure that no one saw us. I mean, how do you know that one of our pages or maids didn’t walk out to the godswood that night only to see their perfect, proper, lady of a princess on all fours letting some wildling savage put his face between her----“

She squeaked and reached up to cover his mouth. “You mustn’t speak of that.”

“Why not?” He grinded his hips against the swell of her backside. “Just thinking of some of the very improper things you’ve dreamt up for us---“

“---As if you’re any better,” she replied, groaning and shifting her hips so his cock slipped between her legs. The white silk of her nightgown was thin, thin enough that he could definitely feel how wet she was. “Hence how we got here. You filthy man.”

“That’s not fair.” This honestly wasn’t all that extreme by any standard. It certainly wasn’t any worse than acting out her little “stealing” fantasy. That whole thing literally involved knife throwing. It was true Jon had done some seriously filthy things in his time---- his relationship with Val was all about her corrupting him and testing his boundaries. Sansa had her fair share of experience, though hers under far worse circumstances that made certain physical boundaries for the two of them immovable.

Not that Jon would ever complain. There were some practices with Val he was very happy to leave behind, and Sansa was hardly a prude. Bedding her wasn’t quite as experimental as some of the things he’d known in Val’s furs, but it was better. 

Still, fucking on the balcony at sunset was hardly the most exotic thing they’d done or even the most exotic thing he’d dreamt of doing to her. He thought this particular scenario was actually quite traditional and romantic. It was making love at sunset in their own castle. Sure, there were a few added bits. The idea of taking her while she was dressed all in white with blue roses crowning her like some innocent winter maiden. The idea of doing it at Dragonstone, which he ruled in his own right instead of, say, Winterfell, which was still hers by law. Not that they hadn’t their fun there as well.  There was an element of possessiveness, of claiming involved in fucking her on the balcony of the castle he was lord of where anyone could see.

And it wasn’t like this didn’t go both ways. Jon didn’t think it was a coincidence that Sansa took such pleasure in leading Ghost around the gardens of King’s Landing whenever Jon wasn’t available to walk with her. Or that the handkerchiefs she’d made for him were all embroidered with red wolves that echoed the nickname she’d gained during the wars as opposed to the white wolf he actually warged into or the green dragon he actually rode. Then there were all those bite and scratch marks on his shoulders and back…

Jon might be half-Targaryen, but they were Starks. They were wolves. Wolves marked their territory in one way or another. She did it by clawing at his back, decorating his garments with reminders of whom he was married to, and demonstrating her bond with Ghost. He did it by trying to seduce her on his property, occasionally making requests that she wear his colors in public or the coronet denoting her status as his princess when they fucked, and occasionally giving Willas Tyrell or some over-eager singer a look of warning. 

“Come on, Sansa,” he grunted as she wiggled her hips and made him see stars. “Can’t you feel how much I need you?”

 “Mmmmm…”

“Come on, let me have you while overlooking the sunset. We could be like Aegon and Rhaenys.”

She giggled. “I don’t recall any songs about the Conqueror fucking his sister-wife on the balcony of Dragonstone.”

“What do you think inspired him to conquer Westeros in the first place? Joining himself with the woman he loved while facing the Seven Realms at sunset, wondering if ruling all Seven Realms could bring him half the rush he found inside his wife.”

She pushed back against him so hard he stumbled bit and almost fell back. She smiled at him, the rays of the setting sun casting coppery highlights in her auburn hair. “Sit." 

There was, in fact, a chair on the balcony, dragged out from the solar. He’d found it there when he exited the bedchamber, eager to begin this tryst. He’d not questioned it, preferring instead to just enjoy himself. His wife was a plotter, one of the best in Westeros. He trusted her.

He sat back, wishing he knew what to do with his hands. The chair had no armrests. Jon settled for pulling off his tunic as Sansa began reaching for the laces at her bodice, pulling the white satin ribbons that held it closed with fluid fingers. The tunic gone, Jon’s hands went to his intentionally barely-laced trousers.

“You’re not wearing any smallclothes, Prince Jon,” Sansa said in a tone of mock-disapproval. 

“Neither are you, Princess Sansa,” he said, practically jumping out of his seat in delight as the folds of fine white silk fluttered off her shoulders and settled in a puddle on the floor. Full breasts with dark nipples, white skin made rosy in the sunlight, red curls and lush curves greeted his eager eyes.

In Essos, he’d seen a number of altars to foreign gods and goddesses. Right now his wife resembled a few of the statues of love and fertility goddesses he’d encountered.

She came towards him, gripping the sides of his face and kissing him deep. She sunk down, but didn’t join with him as he’d hoped. Instead, she straddled his knee, grinding against it as she kissed him furiously, running one hand through his hair and the other down his back. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs. Sansa arched her back and moaned his name as he attacked her neck.

Jon needed her, needed to be encased in her, but she kept grinding against his thigh. His cock ached like mad as he bit down on her skin. She yelped.

 “Do it again,” she gasped. Jon grinned and nibbled at her neck, then her collarbone, then her breasts. He licked at her nipples tenderly. Her hips began moving with a more frantic pace. Jon bit down on her right, perhaps a bit harder than he meant to, and she hissed.

Jon grinned as he felt her lift her hips a bit higher. The top of his left thigh was slicked with her fluids. Sick of teasing, he gripped her backside, yanked her up, and then, moving both hands on her hips and looking into her big blue eyes, he pulled her down onto him.

Sweet, wet heat. Pure bliss. Both cried out and threw their heads back for a moment to revel in it before looking at each other again, grinning, and beginning to move their hips in earnest.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and her claimed her mouth again. She tasted so sweet. It took a while before he could remember where he even was. But then he did, and he pulled back.

The sky was a backdrop, the actual sun now blocked out but his wife’s glistening, moving form. There was the explosion of color in the visible sky: gold, orange, hot pink, bright violet, purple, blue…. And at the center of it all was her. It was like she was the sun. Just like he thought. The fiery hair definitely helped a bit. 

He buried his face in her neck and began moving faster, harder as he tasted her skin. She began to speak. 

“Jon… Yes…. Right there… Just like that…. Yesssssss…. Right…. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh…OHHHHHH!” Her inner walls clenched around his cock like a vice.

She yanked his head back and kissed him again, but not before whispering that she loved him.

She clung to him so tightly, like he was all she’d ever need. Even her cunny had him in her desperate grip. Every inch of her was warm and wet and soft and so very, very perfect. 

He moaned into her mouth as his wits and seed left him. His peak came as a shockwave that made him fall back against the support of the chair, pulling his panting, quivering wife back against him. They stayed like that, naked, sweating, gasping, tangled in one another. 

She seemed to regain her senses a bit before he did. She nuzzled his neck, her breath teasing his skin. “Well? Was it everything you dreamed, Your Grace?”

It took him a second to register the question. “Well…” he said dryly, “There wasn’t a chair. I was standing and you were against the rail.”

“Too dangerous.”

“Mmmm.” This was true. But Jon was generally better at planning battles and job assignments than couplings. “This was perfect. Better. I liked the chair.”


End file.
